


Keep Quiet

by jenish (phizzle)



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Community: patrickxpeter, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-11
Updated: 2006-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phizzle/pseuds/jenish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Beta by sobrellevar. For the patrickxpeter 'platonic sleeping' challenge.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Keep Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by sobrellevar. For the patrickxpeter 'platonic sleeping' challenge.

**2001**

"Where are we?"

The dregs of sleep caked the corners of Pete's eyes. He lifted his head, with the utmost reluctance, and fumbled for Andy's watch. As it was still attached to Andy's wrist, there ensued a tussle.

"It's ten o'clock, Pete, and we just crossed the state line into Alabama, okay?" Andy rubbed his wrist.

"We playing tonight?" Pete tried to sit up, held down by Patrick's arm across his chest.

"Yeah, there's this place, said if we turn up with all our stuff and entrance fee, we can play."

"Have we got entrance fee?" Joe mumbled from where he was curled around an amp, blankets pooled over his shoulders.

"Just about," Andy sighed. "They said if we're good, they'll pay us."

Patrick made a soft sound in his sleep. Pete petted his arm reflexively. "We're good," he said.

"Which means we might even get to eat," Joe said, sounding a little more awake. "Is anyone else hungry?"

"The real question would be is anyone _not_ hungry," Pete pointed out. "But hey, I wouldn't swap this."

"Well, me either, it would just be good if my stomach growling didn't drown out my guitar." Joe wasn't complaining, exactly, and Pete knew it. He was just … pointing some things out.

"So play louder," Patrick mumbled. He shifted, curling further into Pete's side. "I'm warm," he concluded, drifting back to whatever depth of sleep he'd surfaced from.

Pete brushed a few strands of hair off his forehead. "You're crazy," he wanted to say, but then they all were. He wondered for a moment which was the pot and which the kettle.

The bus rattled on, taking four (five, counting the poor shmuck driving) tired boys further into Alabama.

**2003**

"Are we good, or are we fucking _good_?" Joe launched himself at Pete, grabbing him around the waist and jumping simultaneously. Pete laughed and matched the jump.

"We're fucking _awesome_," Patrick yelled, punching the air, one arm around Andy. The other came down to rest over Pete's shoulders and brush Joe's neck.

"This job fucking beats everything, in the world, ever," Andy stated. Four boys and four grins and all in agreement.

"Did you see those kids out there? They knew, like, every word to Pros and Cons. Chicago crowds are the best." Pete shook his head, cheeks hurting from grinning, body aching from throwing himself around a stage every night for the whole of this tour. "I fucking love this town."

"Come on, let's _hit_ this town," Dirty yelled. "We've got partying to do!"

The group that clustered around them surged, nine exhilarated boys off to celebrate one fantastic concert.

**2005**

Patrick loved being in the studio after hours, when the rest of the band had gone home. He played some of the new songs sometimes, or tried out other songs he loved, just him and a guitar. Other times he'd play with melodies, enjoying the feel of them, testing new and old ones out, picking the pieces apart and putting them back together again.

In the middle of one such session, his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He could have sworn he'd turned the thing off, but flipped it open anyway. Of course. Pete. "Hey man, what's up?"

"She is," Pete said, simply, sounding so flat-out frustrated that Patrick put his guitar down.

"What is it this time?"

"What _isn't_ it? According to her, I can't do anything right."

"Well. She's, yeah. Kind of acting crazy, Pete." Patrick didn't think he'd heard him.

"Oh, and my favourite one! Apparently, I flirt with other guys when she's around _specifically_ to piss her off."

"And here I was, thinking you do it because you can't resist pretty guys." Patrick shook his head.

"She should _know_ by now it doesn't mean anything," Pete sighed, exasperation in every sound. "And I will remember that remark, Stump, and punish you for it later."

"Hey, just because you're like a magpie with shiny things –"

"Oh, magpie is it?" Pete was starting to smile, Patrick could hear it. "I'll show _you_ magpie, Trickles."

"Trickles? Oh, you are so paying for that."

"Yeah? Come here and say that." Pete was definitely smiling now.

"No, you come _here_. I'm still in the studio." He paused. "Andy left the lightsabers," he added.

Now that, there, was a laugh. Certainly a laugh. "Are you challenging me to a duel?"

"I am, Lord Wentz of Magpietopia."

"Then, Lord Stump of Tricklesia, I accept. Lightsabers at dawn. Or in twenty minutes, whichever comes first."

"To the death!" Patrick declared, and hung up.

It took Pete twenty-five minutes to get there, and when he arrived he grabbed two baguettes out of the car. "In case we need backup lightsabers," he said, when Patrick raised his eyebrows at them.

Patrick threw him the blue lightsaber. "En guarde!" He raised his.

Pete started, then stopped, grinned, and switched to his left hand. "You seem a decent fellow," he said. "I hate to kill you."

Patrick caught on and switched hands. "_You_ seem a decent fellow. I hate to die."

Pete inclined his head. "Begin."

The lightsabers clashed, plastic on plastic. Patrick ducked a move, then Pete ducked the return. They battled.

"You are using Bonetti's defence against me, huh?" Pete weaved, and parried, and made a bold stab in the region of a Spanish accent.

"I thought it fitting, considering the rocky terrain," Patrick replied, vowels tightening. Clash, clash, whoomp.

"Naturally. You must expect me to attack with Capo Ferro."

"Naturally. But I find that Thibault cancels out Capo Ferro," Patrick replied, smug tones and arm working. "Don't you?"

"Unless the enemy as a-studied his Agrippa," Pete grinned. "Which I have." They fought on, adding 'jhoom' noises periodically. "You are wonderful," Pete said.

Patrick's cheeks might have pinked a little. Or they might not. "Thank you. I've worked hard to become so."

"I admit it," Pete said, smiling. "You are better than I am."

"Then why are you smiling?"

"Because I know something you don't know." The Spanish accent was all but abandoned now, for which Patrick was grateful.

"What is that?" he asked, backing Pete almost into a corner.

"I am not left-handed." Pete caught his lightsaber in his right hand and backed Patrick away from the corner, parry parry thrust.

"You're amazing," Patrick breathed, trying to keep his left wrist from falling off.

"I ought to be, after twenty years." That was definitely a blush. Pete was _blushing_.

"There's something I ought to tell you," Patrick said, making a mental note to tease Pete to death later.

"Tell me," Pete said, getting Patrick nearly over an amp, lightsabers straining at each other.

"I'm not left-handed either." Patrick pushed Pete off, swapped hands, and executed an almost balletic move. "You're supposed to not have a sword now," he said, voice relaxing to normal.

"I know," Pete said, countering Patrick's attacks. "But Westley ends up knocking Inigo out, and I'd rather not do that bit."

"I still win, right?" Patrick grinned. Pete attacked one last time, and slumped, panting.

"The Dread Pirate Patrick," he said, laughing. His legs bent, and he slithered to the floor, back to the wall. Patrick slid down to sit next to him.

"All shall tremble before me," Patrick said in what was meant to be a pirate voice. It came out more scratchy.

"We should do a pirate song for the next record. Something about rum."

"Yes, because we all drink so much of that," Patrick rolled his eyes. Pete punched his arm. "Hey listen, while we're here, want to help me out with a little acoustic thing? I was thinking of recording Baby, but I tried and it kind of needs two people. I was going to talk you into it tomorrow, but seeing as you're here –"

"I'd love to," Pete cut him off. He tapped their lightsabers together.

**2006**

"I can't believe I don't live at my parents' house any more," Pete whispered. It was four in the morning, and everybody had finally, _finally_ gone home. Everybody except Patrick, of course, who was crashing.

"Yeah, but it gave you an excuse for a housewarming," Patrick pointed out, sleepily. They were on The Comfiest Couch In The History Of Couches, which Pete had named in a way that refused to be anything but capitalised, and Patrick's head was in Pete's lap. He yawned. Pete was running his fingers through Patrick's hair, and it was very, very soothing. "And you'll go back," he said, voice evening out.

"Yeah," Pete replied, absently. He carried on stroking Patrick's hair, long after the telltale snuffles that indicated he was asleep started. "I can't not visit," he whispered, to the dark, to Patrick, to himself, he didn't know. He just knew that he didn't want to get up. "I want to see my mom, and my dad, and I will miss being so near your place." He sighed, fingers rhythmic. Patrick cuddled closer in his sleep. "I love you, kid," Pete said, shifting so he was lying down.

Patrick nestled closer, arms and legs going around Pete, and Pete chuckled into his hair. "Guess you love me too, huh?" His fingertips went back to stroking, tracing a line behind Patrick's ear. "Well, good. You'll be there no matter what, right? 'Cause I'll do that for you. I'd take a bullet for you, Patrick," he whispered, receiving a slumbering nuzzle.

The sun rose that morning, picking across the debris on the floor from the party. Food smushed onto tables and carpet, drinks spilled, ash flicked haphazardly. It alighted on two boys, curled up together on the couch, fast asleep and tranquil smiles on their faces.


End file.
